


White Rabbit

by TheRevenant



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blink and you'll miss it, But it's there, Gen, Jack is the white rabbit leading Gabriel down the proverbial rabbit hole, M/M, Reaper76 is very slight, very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21053027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRevenant/pseuds/TheRevenant
Summary: The noise is deafening between the pitiful sobbing and the high-pitched wails, the thunderous sound of hooves overhead and the obnoxious wild pounding of living beings thrusting themselves and banging their fists against bulletproof glass to no avail.  The scratching, clawing, grating sound on the walls of the cell across from him...  All of this makes his slumber nigh impossible to achieve any longer.  One strong shove of a palm into the darkness is enough to rip the heavy steel lid from its hinges with a grating sound that echoes throughout the room.





	White Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an introductory drabble for a new muse I decided to introduce into an alternate universe I am steadily building with the help of several friends. And, with the gentle nudge from my girlfriend, I chose to post this here. I was a liiiiiittle excited for this one as surely no one was expecting this particular twist. I hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it! :)

The noise is deafening between the pitiful sobbing and the high-pitched wails, the thunderous sound of hooves overhead and the obnoxious wild pounding of living beings thrusting themselves and banging their fists against bulletproof glass to no avail. The scratching, clawing, grating sound on the walls of the cell across from him... All of this makes his slumber nigh impossible to achieve any longer. One strong shove of a palm into the darkness is enough to rip the heavy steel lid from its hinges with a grating sound that echoes throughout the room. 

The void is no longer a void, but another cell illuminated only by the dim light of about ten candles. It's more than enough, he thinks, as a clawed hand grips at the edge of his makeshift bed, scratching the smooth metal and sinking into the wooden handhold with ease as he pulls himself upright. Everything has gone quiet or perhaps he's stopped caring to listen to the bustle of the world around him.

To the right, there is a table with things he does not recognize. Books of obscure ancient tongues coded beyond recognition that he doesn't care to decipher and to his left there are large incubation tubes of red liquid with someone hooked to a bunch of smaller tubes inside that catch his eye. Extricating himself from the bindings on the lower half of his body with a flick of his claws, he frees himself to wander over and place a hand on the glass to discover it's warm.

Good.

This isn't how he normally prefers his meals -- he has always preferred the chase, the sweet smell of fear and adrenaline in his prey -- but it will have to do when he's this ravenous. He needs a clear head for a proper hunt later if the good doctors are so inclined to let him play.

Grabbing a glass from the table, he returns to tap the tube with a single clawed digit and relishes in the low groans it pulls from the human cattle as it rouses, eyes flashing as he dips to turn the tap and watch as blood begins to drain from the source and fill the glass. The tap is shut when it's full and he downs the liquid inside, relishing in rich smoked earth, cinnamon and a hint of apple. It brings life and dulls the pounding in his temples to a bearable irritation. 

Another glass and he can feel his cheeks firming out, no longer concave from months without a proper feeding as he'd chosen _sleep_ as an alternative to what felt like an eternity of boredom. He'd been unable to hunt, unable to fight, to maim, to kill... A meaningless existence to a man who knows nothing else. Perhaps he will have to carve a new existence for himself if the good doctors have decided to continue to bench him for _one_ little slip up.

Maybe he'll carve _them_ to pieces instead.

Appealing is the thought of carving out the Devil's heart, ripping the Banshee to shreds. If only either of those things would cease the infernal shrieking and deafen the hooves of the hellish beasts that keep their ever watchful eye upon him wherever he may roam. _Yes_, the silence would be far more preferable to the second life they've given him here.

Snarling, the glass shatters when his fist closes tightly around it. His form blurring, ebony wisps curling and spreading to cloud the cell, to fill the vents above and smoke out the lower half of the building enough to surely trip the alarms upstairs. If it interrupts their work, then good. It's about time they ventured a visit to see him. Had it not been long enough? If they expect him to be thankful they were at least kind enough to leave him a few snacks, they're sorely mistaken.

He seethes, listening for any sign of movement above and relishes in the irritated curse and braces for the blinding white light sure to follow by the generator kicking on. The latch above clicks and the heavy door is pulled open. He can hear its hinges squeak in protest, heels clacking on the steps as his guest descends into his domain. The room gets warmer on their approach and he strains to see through the light, useless as it is. He smells her more than he sees her: the Devil.

Her black kevlar covered hand curls around one of the bars, laughter ringing off the walls, amused. "Mein armer kleiner Blutsauger. Have we been neglecting you, liebling? Did you not enjoy the treat we left for you?" She coos, observing him as he approaches the front of the cell. Reaching out to brush her fingers along his jawline. "You're not quite as pale as you were and you're not looking quite as ghastly as last week when I came to check on you. You'd fed recently, yes?"

The Devil's touch almost burns against his cool flesh, pulling away from her grasp. "The least you could do is let me out of here. It's been long enough, hasn't it? Your cattle doesn't appease me; _I want to hunt_." He hisses. She smiles, backing away from the cage. "I know, liebling, but don't you worry. We have every intention of releasing you soon. We have a job for you."

Eyes narrowing, he watches as she approaches the panel on the wall next to the cell across from him. A series of numbers are punched into the keypad before a short spark fizzles around the bars, how they never hurt her, when she touches them, he will never understand. Another button and the gate's lock clicks, the door sliding open and finally freeing him. Curiosity is the only thing keeping him from acting on the urge to tear her apart, "What does the job entail?"

The grin she gives him is anything but kind, palm outstretched to reveal a skull. "Simple. Something was taken from us and it's put us behind schedule. _Several_ somethings were taken from us. You know how irritating that is to have something swiped from your grasp; we're sending you to retrieve them. We will transport you to a remote location, so we cannot stress enough the necessity of total radio silence and, after a certain point if all goes to plan, communication will be impossible until we can reach you ourselves."

"Who are the targets of interest?"

"You will know when you arrive where you are meant to go."

\-----------------------------

He's been skulking around this town for the last two weeks watching people come and go. There's no one of interest to be found here, none of their usual targets have passed through: he's beginning to wonder if this wasn't a fool's errand, after all. At least he was able to hunt in the meantime, to consume and feed on prey at his leisure without the threat of being pulled underground again. There were perks to this radio silence.

Patience was never his strong suit and he was never one for complacency, pacing through the town in the dead of the night in search of a new victim, in search of whatever the doctors were after here.

Leaves crunch underfoot, twigs snapping and footfalls echoing somewhere to his right. He turns a corner, peering out into the streets. Short golden blond hair catches under the light and draws his attention. The man is wearing a short sleeved white t-shirt with navy blue shorts and white running shoes. Sweat glistening off his chest and the redness to his cheeks suggest he's been running for a while now; the sound of his pulse a sweet melody that draws him in and lowers his gaze to that generous chest threatening to rip his shirt if he so much as flexes. It draws a whole different type of hunger to his mind.

It's definitely a Morrison.

He imagines that's the sign he's been looking for and waits until he's rounded the next corner before trailing behind. The perks of being of all this being off the record is he doesn't have to return immediately. Perhaps he can take his time luring him home.

\-----------------------------

It's a quaint little hole in the wall place that the blond finally stops by. A cafe that runs twenty-four hours and owned by a woman named Fatima. He's stopped by a few times himself since he's been here, sweet-talked his way into free coffee now and again. He was hardly a stranger, so it would seem luck was on his side. Entering after him wouldn't be out of the ordinary, so he makes his way to the building.

However, when the door swings open, it is not the familiar sight he is greeted with. There is no soft music, nor dimly lit atmosphere. No soft clinking of silverware or small talk among the patrons; everything tilts and, for a moment, he feels like he's falling. Darkness swallows him whole and not even his preternatural sight can discern what he is seeing. A blank expanse of nothingness folded out before him. 

Until finally, he is met with the soft whir of technology. The smell of metal and medicine, not unlike the lair of the Banshee and disgust curls his lip from a sharp fang. They didn't drag him back already, did they? His sight returns and he is met with an empty lab and the soft crackle of his communicator as it fizzles out: useless. No. He is not back home. He doesn't recognize this place in the slightest and he can only assume this is where he's meant to be.

He moves slowly, scoping the place out for signs of life, wandering further until he gives pause in a large room with a machine at its center.

Where, oh _where_, had he fallen now?


End file.
